Summary: At a forbidden masquerade in Malfoy Manor, you’re hunted, stripped, and used by masked members of the Knights of Walpurgis. Unknowingly fulfilling a prophecy, you’re taken in every way—your body a vessel, a ritual.
Warnings: Noncon/dubcon themes, multiple partners, every hole filled, degradation, multiple orgasms, masked/anonymous sex, ritualistic undertones, no safewords, gangbang,
Words: 2.1k
⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆
The invitation arrived on black parchment, sealed in silver wax bearing no crest—only a symbol: a twisted serpent curled around a rose, its thorns glistening like teeth.
You weren’t sure who sent it. No name, only the place.
There’d been whispers, of course. Of elite gatherings behind ancient doors. Purebloods hiding in shadows, men of power clinging to the ashes of a war they refused to accept as lost. Still, curiosity was a vice. And you’d always had a taste for danger.
The moment you step past the wrought iron gates, something shifts. The air is thick with enchantment, an old, pulsing magic, heavy as blood in your mouth. The gravel crunches beneath your heels as you approach the towering manor, cloaked in black ivy and moonlight.
You wear a deep red gown, satin clinging to every curve, your face hidden behind a delicate lace mask. Your fingers tremble only slightly as you raise a hand to knock.
But the doors open before you touch them.
No butler. No greeting.
Only darkness and the scent of smoke, wine, and something feral.
You step inside.
The doors slam behind you.
Music drips from the walls—low, slow, haunting strings. Candles hover mid-air in twisted candelabras, their flames silver instead of gold. The ballroom stretches impossibly wide, the chandeliers hung with crystal charms that glitter like stardust.
And they’re already watching you.
Men in masks.
Dozens of them.
Each face obscured by finely crafted masks. Obsidian and onyx, silver and serpentine green, shaped like wolves, dragons, wraiths, and things with no name. None of them speak. But you can feel them, eyes behind metal and velvet. Searing through your gown. Your skin.
A chill races down your spine.
You’re not supposed to be here.
A step backward. And then…
“Don’t.”
A voice. Deep, regal, amused.
You turn, but the mask staring back at you is faceless, blank silver, smooth as a mirror. Tall. Cold. A presence carved from authority.
He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to.
“Do you know where you are, little one?”
Your mouth opens. You’re not sure what you planned to say.
“Yes,” you lie.
He hums. A slow, dangerous sound.
“She thinks she’s clever,” says another voice, off to your left. Velvet-soft and lined with cruelty.
Another man steps into view, his mask a snarling hound, silver teeth bared. He tilts his head, studying you like prey.
“No mark. No sponsor. She’s unclaimed.”
“She’s the one,” a fourth voice murmurs. This one deeper, quieter. Almost reverent.
“She’s real.”
The silver mask stiffens.
“She came on her own.”
“As foretold.”
As prophesied.
The room goes still.
You feel it like a curse: their attention, sharpening. Masked heads turning. Magic shifting.
One by one, they begin to circle.
“She doesn’t know,” someone whispers.
“She should,” says another. “Let’s show her what it means to belong to the Dark.”
Your heart slams in your chest.
You turn to run.
They let you.
You sprint through a corridor of endless mirrors, the red of your dress a streak of defiance. Your heels echo against marble. Laughter trails behind you—low, amused, dark.
They are not chasing you.
They are herding you.
Every corridor twists deeper. Every door opens to more silence, more masks waiting in the dark. You pass through a velvet-curtained hall where the air tastes of wine and sweat. Someone steps from the shadows and brushes your waist, not holding, just grazing. The touch burns.
You whirl. No one there.
Just a mirror.
Just your reflection.
But your mask… is gone.
Your breath catches.
You hadn’t taken it off. No one touched it. No hands, no spell you noticed. And yet, there you are, reflected with your face bare, vulnerable, exposed under the dim silver glow.
You blink…
And now your reflection is smiling.
You’re not.
A shiver crawls down your spine.
A door creaks behind you.
You run again.
The manor transforms as you move. Corridors stretch, then narrow, doors vanish behind you. Magic is alive here. Feral, intelligent. And the Knights are moving with it.
The first one appears before you like smoke, stepping through a doorway you could have sworn was a wall. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black with a long cloak that sweeps the floor. His mask is carved like a snarling beast, horned and ancient.
He says nothing.
Just watches.
Then he lifts his hand, two fingers, beckoning.
You freeze.
His magic rolls toward you like heat.
You shake your head and stumble backward, breath ragged.
A laugh follows.
Low, deep, cruel.
From behind.
You turn, too slow.
A gloved hand catches your throat, slams you back against the wall. Not hard, not yet, but firm enough to make your thighs clench.
This mask is sleeker. Silver edged with black. His voice is velvet-lined command:
“Are you frightened, little prophecy?”
You swallow.
“No.”
Another lie.
He leans closer. “You will be.”
Your dress is the first thing to go.
Not torn—removed.
Each Knight that steps from the shadows touches only part of you. Fingers on your shoulder. A slow drag of a glove down your spine. A firm grip on your waist as you stumble through an archway.
They peel you like fruit, reverent and ruthless all at once.
By the time you reach the grand library, you’re in nothing but heels and a shred of dignity. Skin glowing in candlelight. Breathless. Disoriented.
A circle of them awaits.
Seven masks.
Each one more terrifying than the last.
You recognize the silver serpent—that must be Lucius.
The horned one again, Lestrange, maybe. And there, in the back, standing utterly still: a mask smooth and featureless, like a god that doesn’t need expression to inspire fear.
Tom.
You know it’s him.
Every part of you knows.
“You ran well,” the hound-masked one murmurs. Avery, perhaps, circling you like a wolf. “But you’re cornered now, little witch.”
“She’s trembling,” Nott hums, stepping behind you. His gloves are gone, his hands are cold, sliding along your hips. “Do you feel that? She wants this.”
You gasp as his fingers part your thighs. Not inside. Just there. Just… waiting.
“She doesn’t even deny it.”
They close in.
You can’t count how many hands. Can’t tell who’s who anymore.
Someone grabs your chin, forcing you to look up.
“Eyes open,” the voice commands—Tom’s, you know it. “You’ll watch what you become.”
They didn’t strip you bare just to tease. They make a spectacle of it.
You’re lifted, placed on a long chaise like an offering. Legs spread, hands bound in soft black silk above your head. Your breath comes in sharp, shallow pulls as a masked man steps forward.
The dragon mask.
Rosier.
He kneels between your thighs without a word.
His fingers dig into your hips as his mouth claims you—no warning, no mercy. Heat, wetness, obscene noise—he devours you like he’s starving, tongue dragging over your clit in firm, calculated strokes. He moans into you, and the sound vibrates straight through your core.
You cry out.
The others chuckle.
“She’s loud already.”
“Ripe for us.”
The shame only makes it worse. Makes it better.
Your back arches as Rosier sucks hard, fingers spreading you wider. You can feel their eyes. Feel the weight of it.
Judging.
Owning.
Loving your ruin.
You cum too fast—your body buckling, walls clenching. You sob through it, but they don’t stop.
Hands keep you down.
Mouth still on you.
Another orgasm rips through you. And another.
“Look at her fall apart,” someone murmurs.
When Rosier pulls back, his lips are slick, mask still perfectly in place.
You’re lifted up momentarily so someone can slide underneath you.
Your chest to chest, face buried into his neck.
Then someone’s cock, thick, hot and demanding rubs along your entrance.
“Let’s show her what it means,” the voice rasps. Lucius, you think. “To belong to the Dark.”
The tip of his cock presses against your dripping entrance. He doesn’t thrust.
He slides in.
Slowly.
Too slowly. Too deep.
You choke on a cry, your hips jerking. He doesn’t allow it. One hand tightens around your waist, the other presses down between your shoulder blades, forcing your body against him more.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice like ice over fire. “Let them watch you take me.”
You’re so full.
He doesn’t stop until he bottoms out.
You whimper, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Not from pain, not quite but from the sheer force of being filled. Of knowing this is only the beginning.
Another masked figure steps into view.
Avery.
You recognize the mask, sharp angles, cruel mouth, obsidian black.
His cock is already out.
Already hard.
He grips your jaw, forcing your head up.
“No hiding now, little witch.”
He doesn’t wait.
He slides into your mouth with one slow, taunting push, inch after inch, until your lips are stretched around him, your throat tight and burning.
You gag, but he just groans.
“Fuck. She shudders when she chokes. She likes it.”
Lucius starts moving underneath you—deep, brutal thrusts that make your whole body rock. Every time his hips slap against your ass, Avery fucks forward into your mouth, syncing their rhythm.
You are caught.
Used.
Filled.
One of the Knights reaches beneath you, spreading your thighs further. Fingers slide between your folds, circling your clit, pinching cruelly until your muffled cries vibrate around Avery’s cock.
“You’re dripping,” Nott says behind his mask, amused. “So greedy.”
He slaps your clit.
You jolt, nearly choking again.
Cheers rise from the others.
“She’s crying.”
“She’s close.”
Another masked man stands behind you, Lestrange, perhaps. You can feel him watching, feel his fingers spreading your ass. Something slick coats you, oil, magic, you’re not sure.
And then another cock nudges at your untouched entrance.
No.
You tense.
They don’t stop.
They never stop.
Lestrange breaches you with agonizing care, easing inside inch by inch as Lucius still fucks your pussy and Avery owns your throat. You are stretched beyond reason—full in every hole. Your body trembles violently, tears dripping from your chin onto Avery’s thighs.
And yet—you’re wetter than ever.
You’re burning for it.
They know.
Tom steps forward. You know it’s him by the weight of his magic. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. Just watches.
“She was born for this,” he murmurs, voice like prophecy. “The body made to bind us.”
Lucius growls, thrusting harder.
Lestrange holds your hips tight, pounding into your ass now, deep and brutal.
Avery groans as you gag around him, tears soaking your cheeks.
You are nothing but sensation.
Nothing but theirs.
Your orgasm hits like thunder—violent, devastating, so deep it rips a scream from your throat, even around Avery’s cock. Your whole body shudders, clenches. It doesn’t stop.
They don’t let it.
Every thrust pushes you further.
Every hole is filled.
You are used like a vessel, a ritual, as one by one, they take their pleasure.
Avery cums first, groaning as he spills down your throat. You gag, swallow instinctively, tears streaking your face.
Lucius is next, hips jerking as he fills your pussy, thick warmth spilling deep inside.
Lestrange finishes with a grunt, his grip bruising as he slams into your ass one last time, groaning as he empties himself into you.
You collapse when but they don’t let you rest.
You are lifted, body limp, legs shaking.
They pass you between them like a sacred offering.
Nott takes you on your back, watching your face twist with overstimulation. Mulciber fucks your throat next, rougher than Avery. Rosier returns to your cunt, fingers pulling it open, watching the way Lucius’ cum leaks out.
“Messy little prophecy,” he sneers.
You can’t speak.
Can barely think.
And still—still—you want.
You burn.
You beg.
Finally, Tom steps forward.
The room falls silent.
The others step back, reverent.
His mask is pure white. Smooth. Featureless.
He lifts you onto an altar-like table, arms trembling as he runs gloved fingers down your ruined body.
“You’ve taken them all,” he murmurs. “Filled by every Knight. Marked. Claimed.”
You nod weakly.
He lowers himself between your thighs. He doesn’t rush. His mouth worships, tongue slow, deliberate, tongue circling your clit until you’re thrashing.
When he finally enters you, it’s like your body breaks apart.
You scream.
You sob.
You shatter.
He fucks you through every aftershock, murmuring ancient words you can’t understand, something old, something binding.
And when he comes inside you, it’s not just pleasure.
eeeeeee ok so i’ve been reading a lot of ur stuff and i was wondering if u could write more blaise stuff?? maybe smut if ur comfortable but really whatever is fine. ty!!
Tied Together
Summary: After Voldemort had won the war, everything felt uneasy, being forced into a marriage wasn't in the plan, but after a war, nothing goes according to it.
Pairing: Blaise Zabini x Reader
Word Count: 6.2k
Warning: Smut, breeding kink, pet names, forced marriage, name calling.], so many words, the summary sucks ASS, not edited cause I worked an 8 hr shift before I wrote this.
A/N: OFC BABES!! I spent all day trying to figure out what to write about! A classic trope with my own spin to it! This is a long one so buckle in.
This one shot is now a series
Graduation was supposed to be exciting—a milestone filled with relief and hope. But instead, you sit stiffly at your assigned table in the Great Hall, your face carefully blank as the drone of Ministry officials announcing the newly mandated marriages fills the air. One by one, names are read aloud, paired off with cruel indifference.
You barely register the first half of the list, staring down at your clasped hands, the parchment crinkled beneath your fingertips. They go in alphabetical order, and as the names inch closer to your own, you feel your chest tighten. When they reach “X,” your name still hasn’t been called.
Then it happens.
“Blaise Zabini...” the official says, then finally it arrives, your name.
Your stomach drops.
Oh, fuck no.
Your head snaps up, unwilling to believe it, but there’s no denying the truth. Your eyes immediately find Blaise across the hall. He’s already looking at you, his sharp features unreadable save for the slight twitch in his lips—a subtle, disdainful reaction that speaks volumes.
Disgust. Of course.
After years of enduring his thinly veiled insults about your bloodline, his smirks whenever he edged you out for top marks, and the cold indifference he perfected whenever your paths crossed, this feels like the final humiliation. It could have been anyone else. Anyone. But fate—or, more likely, the twisted whims of the Ministry—had chosen Blaise Zabini.
You bite the inside of your cheek, determined not to let your emotions betray you. He, of course, looks as collected as ever, his face a mask of cool disinterest. But beneath it, you know he must be livid. No one in their right mind would want this, least of all him.
The thought offers little comfort as the reality of the situation settles over you. Graduation wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be your first step into freedom. Instead, it feels like the chains around you have only tightened.
The wedding was nothing like you’d imagined it would be.
Everything felt cold—the ancient stone walls of the ceremonial hall, the piercing stares of the pureblood guests seated behind you, and the delicate lace of your dress sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin. The enchanted candles floating above did nothing to dispel the oppressive atmosphere. Their soft glow felt harsh, illuminating every detail of this forced spectacle.
The officiant's droning voice blurred into the background as you stared straight ahead, refusing to meet Blaise Zabini’s gaze. He stood beside you, his posture perfect, his expression as unreadable as ever. If he was as horrified by this union as you were, he didn’t show it. His face was carved in cold indifference, as though this moment meant nothing to him.
You clenched your trembling hands together, the smooth lace gloves doing little to hide the anxiety coursing through you. The crowd’s eyes burned into your back, no doubt judging every move, every breath. Were they thrilled to see a half-blood like you bound to one of their own? Or were they disgusted by the pairing? You couldn’t tell, and you weren’t sure which possibility made you feel worse.
“Do you, Blaise Zabini, accept this bond as law dictates?” the officiant intoned, his voice sharp and unyielding.
There was a brief pause. You could feel Blaise shift slightly beside you.
“I do.” His voice was steady, emotionless.
The words felt like a knife, cutting away any hope you had that he might fight this, that he might object, that anyone might. But Blaise Zabini was no fool. He knew better than to challenge the Ministry.
“And do you," He spoke your name with no emotion, moving his eyes to you, "accept this bond as law dictates?”
Your throat tightened. The words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until you forced the response from your lips.
“I do.”
The officiant raised his wand, the tip glowing as he muttered the incantation that would seal your fates. You felt the magic take hold, wrapping around your wrist like an invisible shackle before fading into nothingness. It was done.
“And now,” the officiant said, a note of finality in his tone, “to seal the bond with a kiss.”
Your stomach lurched. You hadn’t forgotten this part, but you’d desperately hoped it would be skipped—maybe Blaise would refuse, or some exception would be made. But no, tradition demanded it.
Blaise turned to you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of discomfort, or perhaps resentment. He leaned down, his movements slow and precise, giving you no time to brace yourself.
The kiss was brief, a mere press of lips against yours, cold and devoid of anything resembling affection. It felt more like a command than a gesture of unity. You fought the urge to flinch, standing rigidly until he pulled away.
As you parted, your lips tingled—not from passion, but from the bitter taste of obligation. You didn’t look at him, focusing instead on the floor as the crowd offered polite, stifled applause.
Blaise offered you his arm, as tradition dictated. You hesitated, staring at it as though it were a venomous snake. But with the weight of the crowd’s gaze pressing down on you, you relented, placing your gloved hand lightly atop his. His arm was rigid, his touch devoid of warmth.
As you walked back down the aisle together, the reality of your situation began to sink in. This wasn’t a wedding—it was a sentence. A chain around your neck that tied you to someone who didn’t want you, just as much as you didn’t want him.
And yet, as you glanced up at Blaise’s perfectly composed face, you couldn’t shake the thought that, behind his mask of indifference, he might feel just as trapped as you did.
The ceremony ended in a blur of cold stares and stifled applause. You and Blaise were whisked away to the government-mandated home—a pristine, lifeless manor nestled in the countryside. The house was grand and silent, its dark wood floors creaking underfoot, the high ceilings echoing every sound. The Ministry had spared no expense, making sure it was a perfect symbol of your forced union. But inside, the house felt empty, lifeless, like a cage waiting to trap you both.
The silence between you grew, stretching on for weeks. Blaise rarely spoke, his evenings spent reading by the fire or writing letters, while you kept yourself busy, avoiding him as best as you could. Meals were quiet, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware, your eyes avoiding each other at all costs. It was easier that way—no need to pretend things were normal when they were anything but.
But then, Blaise started to notice something.
You’d begun slipping out after dinner, your footsteps quiet on the wooden floors. At first, he didn’t think much of it, chalking it up to your desire for space. But after several nights, he grew curious. The rules were clear: infidelity, whether real or merely suspected, could be disastrous for both of you. He couldn’t afford for that to happen.
One night, he decided to follow you.
He trailed quietly behind you as you made your way out into the darkened streets, your silhouette framed by the flickering light of nearby lanterns. He kept a careful distance, just enough to not alert you, but close enough to see your every move. You stopped outside a small, hidden entrance, casting a quiet unlocking charm. Blaise hid behind a nearby wall, watching as you entered the building.
Inside, you were with a group of Muggle-borns—children, huddled together in fear. He saw you hand them food, speaking to them in soft, urgent tones. His chest tightened as he realized the danger you were putting yourself in. This wasn’t just reckless; it was beyond dangerous. If anyone found out, it wouldn’t just be you who suffered. He clenched his fists, his mind racing with thoughts of what could happen if this was exposed.
But he didn’t intervene. Instead, he silently backed away, leaving the scene without a word.
The next morning, Blaise said nothing. It would be easier that way. But something lingered in the air between you both—a silent acknowledgment that there was more to this union than either of you had anticipated.
The evening had dragged on longer than you'd anticipated, and with each passing minute, the weight of the silence between you and Blaise seemed to grow heavier. He’d been quiet for the most part, which was unusual for him, but you could feel his presence like a shadow at the edge of the room. You couldn’t focus on the book in your lap any longer, so you closed it with a soft snap and glanced at Blaise, who was lounging on the armrest of a chair, one leg hanging casually over the side, his eyes glinting with that signature arrogance.
“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” you said, trying to break the oppressive silence.
Blaise didn't look at you at first, his gaze still lazily fixed on the flickering fire. “Just trying to enjoy the peace and quiet, Mrs. Zabini.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, and you could practically hear the mocking smile in his words.
You rolled your eyes, not bothering to dignify the title with a response. "You know, it’s not that hard to act like a human being once in a while."
Blaise’s head tilted just slightly, and you could tell he was assessing you. “Oh? You’re one to talk. You’ve spent more time hiding in this room than doing anything remotely… social.” He smirked at you, the usual edge in his voice.
“I don’t need your commentary, Blaise,” you shot back, crossing your arms tightly. “I’m just fine without it.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your defensive tone. “Are you?” he asked, pushing himself off the armrest and taking a few steps toward you. “You don’t seem all that fine. Actually, you look more… miserable than usual.”
You stood up quickly, throwing the book on the nearby chair in frustration. "I’m perfectly fine, thanks for asking,” you bit out, voice sharp. “Not that I expect you to understand anything about personal space.”
He took another step forward, his eyes gleaming with that mix of amusement and challenge you were starting to despise. “Personal space?” He laughed, but it wasn’t a friendly sound—it was mocking, dismissive. “Are you really going to pretend like you’re not just avoiding me? You think I haven’t noticed?” He leaned in just a fraction, his face now inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re hiding, and it’s pathetic.”
You pushed him away, more out of irritation than actual force, but he didn’t budge. “I’m not hiding. I’m just... trying to deal with everything without tearing my hair out.”
He leaned back slightly, his posture still relaxed, but his gaze never wavered. “You’re so dramatic. It’s not like you’re the only one stuck in this mess.”
The words hit harder than you expected. “Don’t pretend like you’re not enjoying this,” you said, your voice lower, eyes narrowing. “I know you, Blaise. You thrive on this power.”
Blaise chuckled darkly, his lips curling into a smirk. “What, you think I enjoy being shackled to you? Please.” He stepped back, just enough to give you some space, but the mocking look never left his face. “You’re the one who can’t handle the fact that you’re stuck here with me, and it’s funny to watch.”
Your eyes flashed with anger, and before you could stop yourself, you snapped, “Funny? You think I’m enjoying this too? It’s not a bloody game, Blaise. I have other things to do, but no, instead, I’m stuck here with you and your... smug face. Every damn day.”
Blaise’s expression darkened slightly, but he quickly masked it with another smirk. “Is that so? You don’t like being stuck with me? I guess that’s a shame. I was just beginning to think maybe we weren’t so different after all.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, turning away from him as you grabbed the book off the chair again, though you had no intention of reading it. You just needed something to hold on to, something to distract yourself from the tension in the room.
But Blaise wasn’t done yet. He followed you, close enough that you could feel his presence like a weight on your back. “You know, if you weren’t so hell-bent on hating me, we might actually get along,” he teased, his voice low, almost too calm. “But no, you’ve got this chip on your shoulder, don’t you? I can’t imagine why.”
You spun around, finally losing your patience. “Maybe I have a chip on my shoulder because you have been the biggest pain in my arse for the past several years. You think I’m just supposed to sit here and pretend like everything’s fine?”
Blaise smirked, his posture still languid as he leaned against the doorframe, eyes flicking lazily over you. “You’ve got a temper, don’t you? I like it.”
Your jaw clenched, and you resisted the urge to lash out at him physically. Instead, you just glared at him. “What do you want, Zabini?”
He raised both hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never left his lips. “Nothing at all. I’m just trying to figure you out, that’s all. You’re so... prickly, it’s almost charming.” He looked at you as if you were some kind of puzzle to solve, his gaze calculating but with an edge of amusement.
“Well, don’t get too comfortable. I’m not one of your little games, Blaise.”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you two, thick with the unspoken tension. Then, with one last glance, Blaise straightened and pushed off the doorframe, his lips still twitching with a smirk.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he said, turning to leave, but his words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. “You’ll get used to it, eventually.”
You stood there, fists clenched, watching him leave, knowing that every word he said stung a little more than you wanted to admit.
The ballroom was grand, the air thick with perfume and whispers, swirling with the clinking of glasses and the soft shuffle of shoes against polished floors. You stood at the edge, feeling every bit the outsider in this glittering sea of purebloods, all dressed in their finest, exchanging polite smiles and subtle glances.
And then there was Blaise Zabini.
He moved through the crowd like a shadow, effortlessly commanding attention. His dark suit seemed tailor-made for him, perfectly fitting, and yet somehow, he managed to look entirely unbothered by the extravagance of the event. He caught sight of you standing alone near the columns, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he sauntered over, a slight smirk on his lips.
“Enjoying yourself, love?” he asked, his voice low and laced with mockery. His dark eyes glinted, a subtle challenge in his gaze as he came to stand beside you.
You shot him a withering look. “Oh, absolutely,” you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve always dreamed of this—trapped in a room full of people who wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your response. He leaned closer, just enough for his breath to tickle your ear. “Careful, darling. Someone might think you’re not as happy to be here as you should be.”
You stiffened, your jaw tightening. You hated how he seemed to know exactly how to needle you. “And why would that be, Blaise? You think I’m thrilled to be married to you?”
His smirk widened. “I can’t imagine why not. I’m quite the catch.” He spun on his heel, eyes scanning the room as if seeking someone else’s attention. “But I suppose you’d prefer to be alone, wouldn’t you? No one to witness your charming temper or—”
"Why don’t you keep that smug mouth shut for once?" you snapped, your patience thinning. "You’ve been making my life miserable for years, and I’m just supposed to stand here and pretend like everything’s fine?"
Blaise’s lips quirked upward again, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, I’m not making you miserable. You’re doing that all on your own, darling.”
A tight laugh escaped you. “How generous of you.”
He shrugged, feigning innocence. “It’s true, you know. You’ve always been a bit of a walking disaster, haven’t you?”
“Right,” you said, cutting him off before he could continue. “And I suppose I should thank you for pointing that out. Because nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like constant criticism.”
Blaise glanced down at his watch, as if toying with the idea of leaving. "Perhaps you should take a walk with me, then. Just to show me how 'miserable' you are," he said, his voice suddenly softer, but the teasing edge never quite leaving it.
You narrowed your eyes, unsure of his intention. "I’m sure I’d rather chew glass, but thank you for the offer."
He chuckled, clearly unbothered by your sarcasm. “You know, it’s almost cute how you think you have any control in this marriage."
“Control?” you scoffed. “You think I have control over this—this farce?” You looked around the room, where the pureblood elite swirled around you, pretending to be so important, so dignified. You leaned in slightly, keeping your voice low. “You’re just as stuck here as I am. So don’t act like you’re above me.”
Blaise studied you for a moment, his dark eyes piercing. “Oh, I’m not above you. But I know one thing,” he said, his voice a little quieter now. “You’re just as trapped as I am, and no amount of pretending will change that.”
You held his gaze, anger and something else bubbling just beneath the surface. “You’re right,” you muttered, swallowing hard. “But at least I’m not pretending to enjoy it.”
Blaise smirked again, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Oh, I’m enjoying it just fine.”
Before you could snap back, the music shifted, signaling a new dance. Blaise extended his hand to you, his fingers elegantly poised, his expression unreadable.
"Shall we?" he asked, his voice low and purposeful.
You hesitated for a moment, glancing around the ballroom. The gaze of everyone in the room felt oppressive, their judgment hovering just over your shoulder. Finally, you sighed, taking his hand begrudgingly.
The moment your hand touched his, you felt the shift in the air. It wasn’t the soft, graceful kind of dance you were used to; no, this was more like a carefully calculated battle. He led you into the center of the floor, his steps sure and steady, as you struggled to keep up with the quick pace he set.
“Not so good at this, are you?” Blaise teased, his lips curling into a smile that bordered on cruel. “I thought you were supposed to be the top student.”
You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to focus on the steps, trying to ignore the way his hand on your waist felt far too possessive. “I don’t see you dancing with anyone else, Zabini. So, what’s your excuse?”
“Oh, I have many,” he replied with a smirk, twirling you just a little too sharply, making you stumble for a moment before you regained your balance. “I think it’s just funny how you always act like you’re in control.”
“I am in control,” you snapped, meeting his gaze with as much venom as you could muster.
“Prove it,” he murmured, pulling you a little closer, his hand slipping just a little too low on your back. The move was calculated, deliberate, meant to make you uncomfortable. You couldn’t deny the rush of irritation that swirled through you, and the way your heart sped up—not from desire, but from the sheer frustration of being so close to him.
The music swirled around you, the other couples gliding effortlessly, while you and Blaise stumbled through every step, each move filled with tension and hostility.
“You know,” Blaise said with that infuriating smirk, “if you spent as much time trying to enjoy yourself as you do trying to be miserable, this wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” you retorted, voice tight, “if you weren’t so insufferable.”
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You’ll get used to me. You’re already halfway there, I can tell.”
You shivered, unwilling to admit he might be right. The dance continued—awkward, tense, filled with barely contained animosity, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew he was right.
As much as you hated it, you and Blaise were in this together. And no amount of mean teasing or cold shoulders would change that.
The dinner at the Zabini estate had begun like any other—polished silver gleaming under the soft light, crystal glasses catching the flicker of candle flames. You sat at the long, elegantly set table, Blaise beside you, his mother across, smiling as if she had rehearsed this moment in her mind for weeks. There was a quiet anticipation in the air, and you could feel it, even if nothing had been said yet.
Blaise’s mother—always so poised and calculating—wasn't one for pleasantries when it came to matters that truly mattered. She had a way of making the most innocuous conversations feel like high-stakes negotiations. Tonight, though, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that this dinner was meant for more than just food and idle chatter.
Finally, after a few rounds of safe topics—politics, the harvest, and the state of the family business—she cleared her throat, setting her glass down carefully.
“I trust you both are well,” she began, her tone a bit too casual, almost as if testing the waters. “But there’s something we must discuss. It’s time we talk about the future, about the next generation.”
You exchanged a quick glance with Blaise, but his expression remained unreadable, as always. His mother had been hinting at this conversation for months, and you had a sinking feeling you knew where it was heading.
Her voice softened as she continued, a subtle but deliberate note of authority in her words. “As you know, the Zabini family is quite… traditional in some ways. One of those traditions, which we hold in the highest regard, is the continuation of our bloodline.”
You felt the hairs on the back of your neck rise. You could feel Blaise stiffen beside you, and the air in the room shifted, thick with the weight of what she was about to say.
“By law,” she continued, her eyes locking onto yours, “every couple of noble standing is required to have at least one child. It is not simply a preference. It’s a requirement.”
Your heart skipped a beat. You had been prepared for this, but the weight of her words hit you harder than you expected.
Blaise’s mother leaned back in her chair, watching you closely. “It’s the law of the land now. For families of status, it is a non-negotiable expectation. The bloodline must be preserved. It is your duty as a couple, as future heads of your respective houses, to ensure the continuation of that legacy.”
You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks. The idea that you—both of you—were being forced into such a decision was infuriating, and yet, you knew it was coming. This wasn’t just a suggestion. This was an ultimatum.
“I’m not having a child,” you said, your voice cool but steady, every word sharp with defiance. You looked at Blaise for support, but his expression remained unreadable. You could feel the tension building between you and his mother, but you refused to look away.
His mother’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it seemed to tighten, like a mask slipping into something more calculated.
“You misunderstand,” she said, her voice smooth but sharp. “This is not a choice, darling. The law is quite clear. You will have one child. You are obligated to, for the good of both families.”
Blaise shifted uncomfortably beside you, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t speak. His mother was an immovable force, and he was used to navigating these conversations. You, however, had never been good at swallowing injustice.
“You can’t force us to have a child,” you said firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. “This world is a prison. We can’t bring a life into it, not when it’s nothing but a chain around its neck. Not when—” you broke off, your voice rising in frustration. “This is insane.”
His mother’s smile remained, but the edge in her eyes darkened. “The law is the law,” she said, her tone final. “It is non-negotiable. And let’s be clear: failure to comply with the law has consequences. I’m sure you understand the weight of those consequences, dear.”
You swallowed hard, your mind racing. The truth was clear. Refusing to comply with the law meant more than just a personal choice—it meant rebellion. It meant a loss of status, a severing of ties with everything you had ever known. The weight of it pressed down on your chest, but your resolve didn’t waver.
“I’m not going to be forced into this,” you replied, trying to ignore the heavy thrum of your pulse in your ears. “I won’t be part of a system that treats life like a commodity.”
Her gaze never wavered, cold and calculating. “You may think you have a choice now,” she said quietly, her words like ice, “but soon you’ll realize there is no escaping this. Not for you. Not for Blaise.”
You turned to him, finally meeting his eyes, searching for some sign of agreement, some flicker of support. But he only looked tired, resigned. He knew the stakes, perhaps better than anyone.
“You don’t have to agree with it,” his mother continued, her smile returning, sharp as ever. “But you will comply. It’s for the family, for the legacy. For the future.”
The silence stretched for a long moment before Blaise spoke, his voice low. “We’ll do what we have to.”
But even as he said it, the bitterness hung in the air, heavy with the understanding that, in the end, there was no real choice. There was no escape. And as much as you wanted to fight it, you knew it wasn’t a battle you could win.
The law was clear. You would have to have a child. There was no way around it.
And the thought of it made your stomach churn.
When you both arrive at the house it feels cold, even with the fire lit it still doesn't feel like a home. You go to head to your seperate room, but you stop in the middle of the staircase. "We'll do what we have to do?"
You turn to look at him as he takes his coat off, "What did you want me to say?"
"I didn't want to speak for me." You huff, walking back down the stairs meeting him in the middle of the foyer.
"You are my wife, I am your husband, we speak for each other." He shakes his head, it feels almost demeaning.
"You do not speak for me."
"So what you want to get locked up? Them to make us have a child?"
"I'm not scared of them."
"You should be." He speaks softly, "I am. You don't know what they're capable of."
"I know! You think I don't! They killed my friends, forced me into marrying you under the threat of death!" You raise your voice.
"That's just the fucking start." He rubs his hands on the back of his neck. "Listen, I may not like you as much as I should with you being my wife and all, but that doesn't mean I want you to die."
"God, that's the sweetest thing someone has ever said to me." You roll your eyes. You turn to move back up the stairs.
"Where are you going? We're not done with this conversation." He follows you up the stairs.
"What you want, getting it over with." You enter your room as he still follows you. You start unzipping your dress, he makes a noise and you see him turn around.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He looks towards the door.
"You're gonna get me pregnant, so we don't die or whatever."
"Not like this." He sighs, holding his head in his hands.
"Jeez, Zabini, never seen a girl naked before?"
He just lets out a laugh, shaking his head. "Turn around." He shakes his head. You take a step towards him, your hands on his shoulders, "Blaise, look at me."
He reluctantly turns around, when he faces you he tries to keep his eyes on your face but he can't help but let his gaze trace your frame. You stand there only in your underwear, totally vulnerable in front of him. "This is doing what he have to do, Blaise."
You move your hand to his jaw, to guide his eyes back to your own. "This can't be why we do it."
"Then think of something else, someone else, it doesn't matter." You shrug, even through the thought of him thinking of someone else is gut wrenching to you.
"I can't." His plead sounds so desperate, so light. Suddenly you think you've crossed a line, something you can never come back from. You move back but his hands shoot back to you, holding your waist, pushing your body against his. "I can't think of anyone but the person I really want."
"Wha-" You go to speak, but he pulls you in for a bruising kiss.
He lifts you up in his arms, turning around so he can hold you up against the door. You start to unbutton his shirt as he moves his thumb back and forth on the back of your thighs. He turns around and crawls on his knees up the bed with you still in his arms, he sets you down softly, and crawls down your body with his lips.
"Fuck, you're beautiful." He murmurs into your skin, you groan and push your body into his lips. "Get it over with, my fucking ass. Imma take my time with you."
"Try not to take too long?"
"Oh? Are you feeling needy today?"
"Use your mouth for something better than talking." You grab the back of his neck and pull his back up to your lips. He laughs into you are he slowly- too slowly, taking off his clothes. "Blaise, I swear if you don't do something I will kick you out of my room."
He chuckles again and releases his cock out of the confines of his pants, "Already ready for me, Darlin? Such a good girl."
You moan into his mouth as you feel the tip of his cock toy with your entrance. You buck your hips in the air, making it slip into you even more, "You greedy lil' thing, huh?"
"Zabini." You growl, looking at him with heavy eyes.
"Yes?" He smirks up at you.
"Shut your mouth." You grab his jaw tightly.
"As you wish, princess."
He enters you with a force and a groan, you just lay there and feel every single inch, every single vein and curve. He sits inside of you without moving, letting you settle, but you decide that he's taking too long and you flip yourself over so you're sitting on top of him.
Blaise throws his head back at the site of you, you place your hands on his stomach as he places his on your hips, guiding you back and forth in a rocking motion. He leans up and puts his chest up to your front as he starts to whisper encouraging words in your ear, feeling you up and down, grabbing your ass, helping you move.
"Let go f'me, sweetheart." He sounds drunk on you, as you can. feel him letting go. "Gonna put a baby in you."
"Fuck, do it." You rest your head on his shoulder, kissing his neck. You feel his release inside of you and you finally let yourself go as well.
You both fall to your backs as Blaise uses his shirt to clean you up. Once he settles back into bed he finally speaks, "Wanna talk about it?"
"Tomorrow, I'm tired." Your falling asleep on his chest and he's completely content with that in this moment.
When Blaise wakes up he moves his arm to feel your body but all he feels a cold sheet next to him. He gets up and puts on his underwear to walk down to the kitchen, figuring you'd be there. Only to see dishes in the sink and an empty house. He knocks on the bathroom door, looking for you.
He turns the entire house upside down, looking for you, but with no luck he doesn't find you anywhere. He decides that maybe you went somewhere and forgot to leave him a note. He makes breakfast for himself, but there's a bad feeling in his gut, but he knows it's probably all in his head.
But when the clock turns to noon, then to three... when the sun goes down is when Blaise finally lets himself worry, he writes letters to everyone he knows. His last resort is those Muggles in town, when no one knows where you are he heads to the abandoned house. He doesn't know the incantation so he just desperately knocks, when he receives no answer, he heads pathetically back home.
On his walk back home he notices a tray of food on the ground. Then the bad feeling finally lands, something is wrong, something is so wrong.
When he arrives back home after looking all over the streets and alleys he finally walks inside to see a brown owl set on a perch.
He knows the code name, Draco and him have been using it for months, passing information back and forth from the ministry, keeping each other in the know.
He grab anything, he drops the letter and runs to the floo network.
He arrives at the Ministry after a sickening trip. He walks fast, but not too fast to be suspicious.
Blaise works his way to the elevator only to find a familiar face when he walks in. Rodolphus Lestrange sends him a sneer. Ever since the Zabini’s decided to be a neutral party during the war they don’t have too many friendly faces in the ministry.
“What brings you here, Zabini.” Rodolphus sounds accusing.
He doesn’t speak too quickly, not wanting to raise suspicion. “"I’m looking into some old family records in the Department of Magical Transportation. Family business, you understand, I’m sure."
“I do.” The rest of the ride is silent, just sneaky glances from Rodolphus to Blaise, he can tell the man doesn’t believe him, but at this moment he doesn’t care.
Once it lands on Rodolphus’ stop and the man slowly exits, Blaise can finally let out a breath.
He tries to calm his breathing as he walks out on level 2, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Blasie makes his way down a long, cold, dark hallway, trying to walk like he belongs here, which he absolutely does not. After turning a corner he sees one of the only friendly faces here.
"I can't go in with you." Blaise understands why Draco can't help him, he's already doing too much, he's jeopardizing so much just by letting him in. Blaise nods, giving him a look of gratitude. "78."
After opening the door, Draco walks the opposite direction of the door.
Blaise feels like he's walking for years, one number after another.
75...
76...
77...
78, he finally sees the number he's looking for. He tries to hear through the door, but he knows it would be no use. He just opens the door and what his eyes spot is something he couldn't even imagine. You are shackled from the ceiling, almost unconscious, he would think you were dead if he didn't here your laboured breathing.
His hands start to shake as he approaches you, he speaks your name softly, You try to lift your head, trying to look at him, but you can't smother the energy to do so. "I'm getting you out of here."
But he didn't think of a plan, he has no idea how he's going to do that
He uses the only spell he can think of to get the shackles off of you wrists, then he grabs you, wrapping your body around him. When he walks you out the door he hears echoing footsteps coming from behind him.
Instead of going the way he came he moves the other way, away from the entrance. He walks faster and faster as the footsteps get closer. He finds an office and hurriedly hides in there. God, luck is on his side today. There's a floo network in the office, he hurriedly floos back to your house, but he knows neither of you are safe there.
When he gets back to your house, he sees someone he hasn't seen in years sitting on his couch. Hermione Granger meets his eyes, "Granger, wha-"
"Draco sent me, I have a safe house for you." She stands and walks over to you both.
"I don't understand." Blaise shakes his head, looking to you.
a few fun facts about pureblood wizarding families (while i try to finish the next chapter of valkyrie)
the lore for these aren't fully fleshed out yet but whatever let's just have fun, shall we?
firstly, the sacred twenty-eight aren't the only pureblood wizarding families. cantankereus nott was just a bitch and left many families off because they didn't meet his "standards" of how they conducted affairs in pureblood circles and the notts often profited off the turmoil within other powerful households.
the notts have long held a grudge against the potters going back centuries
the averys and the potters practiced blood magic and necromancy during the renaissance, and held ancient texts which were heavily guarded and kept secret even up until present day (including secrets of the dark arts, useful in the creation of horcruxes). the averys were proud of this history, the potters were not
the prince family are descendants of arielle slytherin (salazar slytherin's youngest child and only daughter) and merlin (of the round table). merlin's myth was deliberately narrated as centuries older than he actually was to preserve the secrecy of the wizarding world. prince comes from merlin's title, "the prince of enchanters", with his and arielle's only child being named arthur for merlin's friend, king arthur
as a result the prince family holds in high esteem their connection with "wizarding royalty"
the lupins emerged out of a british colony in north america, hunting wolves and using their pelts for wizarding robes. eventually they returned to britain but due to a lack of wolf packs in the area, they pivoted to other materials (like snakeskin). eventually, the once-wealthy family fell into poverty and became farmers in wales. the lupins continue to hold a hatred for werewolves, blaming them for the downfall of the lupin family
there's still a north american branch of the lupins, known now as the lovetts (which means young wolf)
the gaunts invented the cruciatus curse, as well as other spells in the dark arts
the blacks partially orchestrated the downfall of the gaunts in pureblood society, seizing on the gaunts dysfunction (as a result of abuse and inbreeding across generations) to position themselves as the new royalty of the wizarding world
the lestrange family was divided once a branch moved to the uk, as both sides believed that either france or britain was the future centre of the wizarding world and despised the other
at the age of ten, lestrange children are led in a ritual to slaughter an animal and burn its bones in a bonfire surrounded by family, as to signify their coming of age in the magical world without reservations or fears
the malfoys have long been associated with veela, leading to their pale and softer features down the line
the malfoys were philanthropists, and considered less extreme on blood status (willing to marry half-bloods, associated with the british monarchy and using those connections to profit behind closed doors. were very involved in high class muggle society until 1692 with the passing of the statute of secrecy, which they initially opposed but later switched and cut ties publicly with muggles)
the mulciber family originated in zimbabwe and were notably proficient in the expelliarmus and imperius curses
the weasleys and the malfoys are inextricably linked, having come to britain around the same time (the invasion of william the conqueror) and have long been enemies, particularly in politics
every eligible heir (ie not disowned, pureblood, mentally "sound") in the black family is arranged to be married, with plans beginning in childhood or even infancy but generally being more or less set by the child's entry into hogwarts. the marriage occured directly after graduation, and was used to strengthen ties with other pureblood families
however, flaws in this system led to inbreeding (organized marriages between cousins), large age gaps (up to ten years), forced rape/pregnancies (even when the parents were still at hogwarts), and female babies being deprioritized in the pursuit of the continuation of the black name. despite this, infertility runs in the family and many children die young (leading to the desire for big families)
at thirteen, the black children are honoured in an initiation ceremony, where they receive a knife carved with the black family insignia. children as young as six begin training with knives to allow them to fight even if magic cannot be used, and all black family members carry their knives with them up until their deaths
there is a class system in pureblood politics. families such as the blacks, the malfoys, the gaunts, the rosiers, and the lestranges are considered "wizarding royalty" and hold the most sway in society and politics, due in part to a) historical connections, b) wide-ranging bloodlines, c) considerable wealth, or d) magical prowess. other families, such as the mulcibers, the pettigrews, the vanitys, and the weasleys were considered flip votes and could often be manipulated easily. typically, the allies in pureblood politics against the wizarding elite are the potters, the longbottoms, the moodys, the abbotts, and the fawleys
let me know if this was fun! i'll definitely do more as i flesh out different families (there are a bunch on the sacred twenty-eight that i have yet to explore) so stay tuned! also, let me know your headcanons for the families!! :)
Bellatrix Black Lestrange and Narcissa Black Malfoy
Now I know Bella doesn’t love Rodolphus, but I hc that when they were freshly married and also at Hogwarts, she’s definitely infatuated with him a little. She thinks he’s hot.
Voldemort not having sex with Bellatrix, being in a relationship with her, and being more attached to her than he's ever been to anyone.
The Black Sisters being abused.
Bellatrix being overly selfless towards her sisters. Yes, she loves them but she also does not mind hurting them and that includes Narcissa.
Belladolphus being a sexless/loveless/cold/lavender marriage, Rodolphus being abusive, or Bellatrix hating Rodolphus.
Katie McGrath or Eva Green as Bellatrix! Please no!
Bellatrix not being the most magically powerful woman in the Wizarding World as well as incredibly smart and/or Bellatrix being jealous of Snape in Spinner's End instead of seeing through his lies.
Bellatrix and Voldemort not being incredibly rich, complex, and well written characters.
Bellatrix having straight hair, grey eyes, hooded eyes, a shaved vulva, small breasts, or being any height other than 1.75 m/5'9".
Bellatrix being cold, aloof, or asexual. Just read the books, people!!! Can't believe I even have to say this.
Voldemort ever truly truly liking Snape, trusting him, or Snape being his favourite. Was he the most useful in the second war? Yes, but that does not make him the favourite nor does it mean Voldemort truly liked him.
Voldemort caring about Nagini on a personal level/beyond her usefulness. Come on, lol. He barely reacts when she dies and is only shown using her for pragmatic reasons. I'd never treat my baby kitty the way he treated that poor snake.
Voldemort hating his mother.
Voldemort not hating Muggles and Mudbloods and not truly believing in the importance of blood purity.
Narcissa being the most beautiful Black Sister because she's a blue-eyed blonde (the colourism!) when canonically a bad expression was enough to ruin her nice looks but Azkaban wasn't enough to ruin Bella's great good looks hahahaha.
Walburga physically abusing her sons.
Lucius being obsessed with Narcissa. It was clearly the other way round.
Draco liking Narcissa more than Lucius.
Harry being buff or any taller than 1.72 m/5'8".
Tall James Potter.
Short Sirius Black.
The Marauders being a healthy, loving friends group.
